


John's Blood

by heeroluva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Community: remix_redux, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>All he could hear was the echo of the gunshot, his ears ringing, and the horrible sounds John made as he gasped for air.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [airspaniel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Expectations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/269609) by [airspaniel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel). 



Sherlock had somehow missed the fact, any clue that might have pointed to it, that the man that they were trailing had a gun. All evidence pointed towards a knife, up-close and personal like what he did to his victims. Sherlock hadn’t expected him to pull it when John and he had cornered him in a dark alley, hadn’t expected John to step in front of him, hadn’t expected to be all but thrown to the ground as John blanketed his body with his own, hadn’t expected the gunshot, too loud, too close, deafening in the confines of the alley, or the sound of bullet tearing through flesh, the shattering of bone, and the spray of blood.

John’s blood.

John, who was a dead weight (unfortunate word choice) on top of him. Sherlock pushed John away, the fading sound of boots splashing in puddles as their quarry (insignificant, unimportant in the wake of this) got away. His hands slid in the blood, putting pressure against the wound (right side, close to the heart, hit a rib, and a lung, thus the blood at John’s lips, the wet sound of his breathing).

“John!” Sherlock called, watching his eyes flutter open. John blinked, his pupils pinpoint small as he was unable to focus. When they closed and didn’t open again, Sherlock’s fingers trembled. He didn’t hear the sound of siren, no doubt called by his brother’s surveillance team. All he could hear was the echo of the gunshot, his ears ringing, and the horrible sounds John made as he gasped for air.

Sherlock didn’t protest when the paramedics arrived and he was pulled away. They gave him a look, though, and Sherlock realized he was covered in blood.

John’s blood. It made Sherlock’s stomach tighten unpleasantly, and the emotions that he was trying so hard not to acknowledge were not to be denied as John was loaded into the back of the ambulance. Fear. Sorrow. Anger at John for being so _stupid_. Disappointment in himself for missing any sign, any clue to the danger.

Mycroft appeared some time after John was wheeled into surgery, but Sherlock ignored him. Lestrade showed up after Mycroft left, offering him a coffee, asking questions. Sherlock ignored too him until the anger overtakes him.

Sherlock poked at Lestrade. “This is your fault. If Scotland Yard wasn’t so incompetent then John never would have been in this position.”

Lestrade sneered in return. “If you weren’t so keen on not telling me things and letting us know what you’ve found, you might have had back up, and maybe John wouldn’t have been hurt and the man could have been caught. Instead, you run off half-cocked like always and put the blame on others when things go all pear shaped. This is your fault, Sherlock. Don’t go trying to shove the blame off onto others.”

Lestrade finally left when Sherlock refused to answer his questions, but Sherlock knew he’d be back at some point for a full statement. And worst of all, Lestrade had been right. This was his own fault. From the first, John had trusted him, inexplicably. Him, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, sociopath whom everyone expected to someday turn killer, the man with no friends. Except now he had one. And look what he’d caused.

But even now Sherlock wasn’t selfless enough to give this up—quite the opposite.

Long hours later, the doctor finally appeared and told him the news (punctured lung, shattered ribs, significant blood loss, nothing Sherlock hadn’t already known). He didn’t care about that; all he wanted to know is when he can see John. The doctor got flustered, saying something about family only, and for once Sherlock didn’t mind Mycroft pushing his weight around and having Sherlock added as John’s next-of-kin.

But first Mycroft made him go home and get clean. That brought the word into sharp focus, and all he saw is the blood that caked his skin, thick under his fingernails, drying on his clothes, making them stiff. And the smell, copper and earth. Sherlock barely made it to the toilet before he was sick. Blood had never bothered him before but this was _John’s blood_.

Once home, Sherlock ripped off his clothes, not caring about the damage because he wasn’t going to keep them, and balled them up in the sink to deal with later. In the shower, he scrubbed himself raw, the water running red, then pink, and finally clear for a long while before he finally exited. If he shed tears there was no way to distinguish them from the water of the shower.

And finally back at the hospital, Sherlock made his stand at John’s bedside.

For days, John drifted in and out of consciousness, never lucid as the staff kept him sedated so he wouldn’t fight the respirator that was breathing for him until his lung healed enough. The staff kicked him out every other day to go home and shower and change. Lestrade and Mycroft and even Molly brought food that Sherlock barely touched.

And finally the day came when they’re going to remove the tube and let John breath on his own, let him wake up. Of course, it’s a day where the staff tried to get him to leave. He shouted, and listed all their faults and they finally let off, leaving him alone. Sherlock shoved into John’s room, the door hitting the wall with a bang before swinging closed again.

Sherlock cut off mid-rant, eyes wide as he’s greeted by the site of an awake but very high John. Despite his relief, Sherlock’s first words were biting because he couldn’t find the words to express what he really felt. “You’re smiling; that’s perfect. Everyone in this building is a bloody idiot.”

“Hullo, Sherlock,” John said voice rough from disuse and the tube that had been down his throat.. “Good to see you, too.”

“Good to see…” Sherlock repeated, incredulous, not believing John was talking like they were meeting for a drink, rather than having just woken up in the hospital on his possible death bed. “John, you were shot.” Sherlock’s heart raced at the words, at the awful memory. John’s blood. He saw it every time he closed his eyes. There was no hiding from it.

John just nodded, and Sherlock can’t believe him. They must have had him on the really good drugs.

“Been shot before, y’know,” John said with a slight slur. “Worse than this.” He raised his left arm for emphasis. “At least now I’m symmetrical.”

Sherlock choked on a sound that might have been a laugh or maybe a sob. He wasn’t sure. “Unbelievable! You are…” Sherlock trailed off, hands clenching as he fought with his need to touch, flexing as he paced. This was so John. But Sherlock knew that John couldn’t possibly feel the same when the pain hit. Pain loosened the tongue.

John watched him for a long moment, and Sherlock felt very much like a bug under a microscope, like he was being judged. Sherlock turned his back, unable to bear the weight of his stare.

“Sherlock,” John said, the voice soft, but there’s a certain command, a depth of feeling in it that Sherlock couldn’t ignore as he turned to look at John.

“I was worried about you, too,” John said as he lifted his uninjured arm, offering Sherlock his hand, pale and trembling.

Sherlock stared at it, hoping, fearing. Surprised that he’s so observant, given John’s state. He slowly stepped closer, watching as John’s fingers curled around the material of the sleeve of his coat. When Sherlock looked up again, John was asleep.

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty, throat thick. Things were never this easy. Sitting down in the chair next to the bed, Sherlock wrapped his other hand around John’s wrist, taking comfort in the pulse he found there. For now he could be content that John was alive even as he waited for the other shoe to drop.


End file.
